Consumed
by skag trendy
Summary: Sam always wins at Rock, Paper, Scissors. This story is about the one time he actually lost. Sick Sam. Worried/Guilty Dean. Worried/Fatherly John. Dean 19. Sam 15. Thanks to Phx for the wonderful beta work.
1. Chapter 1

**Consumed**

**Chapter 1**

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_**Sam always wins at Rock, Paper, Scissors.**_

_**This story is about the one time he actually lost.**_

_**Sick Sam. Worried/Guilty Dean. Worried/Fatherly John.**_

_**Dean 19. Sam 15.**_

_**Thanks to Phx for the wonderful beta work.**_

_**Warning/Note: Swearing, blood, and... er... more blood.**_

_**Unfortunately, my historical facts have undergone a severe fiddling. The same goes for my medical facts, so please bear that in mind in the last chapter, 'cos you won't find many 'facts' per se.**_

_**I'm afraid that I just don't have the time needed to perform any proper research on these things, so I use what little facts I do have swimming around in my brain, and make it up as I go along. The advantage being, I can bend history, time and space to suit my plot. And you have to admit, that does take some skill, and means that not only can I tell a good yarn, but that I'll also make an excellent politician someday...**_

**_God forbid!_**

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

"Ok, boys," John called out, "spread out. Remember, we're looking for a mass grave here, so let's make it fast. These people need putting to rest. _Permanently!_"

"Yes Sir!" came two young voices.

Sharp, yes. Perfectly in sync, certainly. But one of the voices definitely carried a spark of attitude that John chose to ignore. For once, he wasn't the cause of it, and that in itself was the reason for the small grin he was fighting.

Dean.

Dean was the object of Sam's displeasure on this occasion, and John was feeling more than a little smug about it. For the first time in ages, he wasn't the one on the receiving end of the SammyScowl; those brows drawn down into a steep 'V', eyes narrowed to slits, mouth pursed and twisted into a sulky pout.

Yep. John was in the clear.

John was the _good guy_ in all this.

Dean, of course, wasn't exactly making a case for himself. Grinning from ear to ear, and shooting sarcastic comments at his kid brother, he sauntered casually into the woodland cemetery, whilst Sam trudged along in his wake, feet dragging, shovel in hand and raised as though seriously considering the back of Dean's head for it's next resting place.

Sam had drawn the short straw.

Well, _actually _he'd lost in the Rock Paper Scissors stakes and earned himself a few gruelling hours digging a hole.

It was his own fault, John reflected. Sammy always rose to the bait, and Dean, in turn, loved baiting the kid, especially if it meant leaving the heavy stuff to someone else. Dean preferred holding a shotgun to a shovel, and in this instance he'd definitely gotten the cushy number.

And as Dean was so fond of telling him, shotgun? Equals _Majorly Cool_.

Shovel? Equals Shit_ Shoveler_.

The older brother had even pointed out the need for the capital letters, like it was a job description or something, reiterating that it was now _Sam's_ turn for the grunt work.

John had shaken his head in amusement. _Was I like that at his age?_

_Probably._

"Never mind, Sammy," Dean gave his brother a friendly slap on the back, his tone _just_ this side of patronizing. "If it gets you away from those damn school books and out in the fresh air, maybe some decent exercise, it can't be a bad thing, huh?" he finished off with a grin so smug it could have been appointed professor of smugness at Smug University.

Sam's only answer was to deepen his scowl and shrug Dean off.

Dean wasn't the least bit put out, as always.

But he sure was going to be.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Turned out there was more than just one mass grave in the area. Its history was littered with the usual family betrayals, cholera outbreaks, typhoid and, just occasionally, death by bullets and the hangman's noose, both of which were, by far, the speediest methods of dispatch.

However, it seemed the world beyond the veil had been growing restless of late. Plans for rejuvenating the village and surrounding areas hadn't gone down any better with its _current _locals, than it had with its past ones. Big time construction companies and rich suits turned up, pontificating and demanding, harassing and intruding.

One rich suit in particular had purchased a large chunk of land that contained a good portion of the village itself, and had already set the legal hounds on the poor folks who'd settled there many years before.

Poor though they might have been, they were also prideful. They paid their rent on time, were always neighbourly to each other, and extremely welcoming to brief visitors.

But not _these_ visitors.

_These_ visitors had _plans, _involving wine bars and restaurants, shopping malls and boutiques. Modernization was the buzz word in the area, and not one of the natives was happy about losing their peace, quiet and tranquillity to the beast of 'progress'.

So when the new owner found he couldn't legally force them out right away, he grew impatient and let loose an entirely different species of hound.

In other words, the legal hassle was at an end, its own baying hounds locked away in some board room.

But the physical bullying… well, that was a different matter.

It was certainly cheaper employing eight big guys from the newly set up construction site, and everyone knew just how effective fear could be.

The locals didn't give in, however.

But they didn't get mad either.

They got even.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

The Winchesters had been passing through, as always moving on to their next job, when the trouble started.

The rich suit was mysteriously struck down by cholera. The eight construction bullies were found hanged by their own utility belts from the site's crane, in what looked to the 'experts' as a suicide pact.

Next came the legal team, the twelve of them found in a sealed conference room, all with a single bullet wound to the back of the head, bodies arrange in a weird drunken parody of Da Vinci's The Last Supper, and no forensic evidence suggested anyone else had even been there.

No one living at any rate.

And the real kicker?

The doors and windows were all locked from the inside. Even so, persuading twelve people to sit perfectly still in their seats without protest, whilst someone set about systematically whacking them was a pretty neat trick, one any assassin would value in their repertoire.

The cops and, eventually, the feds were puzzled enough to raise an eyebrow, but there was no real evidence of foul play. So they declared suicide yet again, then quickly, and some might say gratefully, closed the case with shaking hands and moved on, effectively illustrating once again the reason for the Winchester family distain of the so called 'authorities'.

To the trained eye, however, it was more than obvious what was going on. And John Winchester was certainly more trained than most.

He was a master.

He could spot the patterns, the tiny details from fifty paces and never, _ever_, left anything to chance.

If it seemed too improbable to be true, then it probably _was _true.

And this seemed like the more _specialist_ kind of case; the kind the feds backed away from, and the Winchesters advanced on.

'Progress' had been and gone from this tiny village, wiped out in a mysterious wave of deaths. The construction company packed up and went home, files and records shipped back to whence they came. Blue prints, carefully laid out in perfect detail and never to come to fruition, were destroyed by the locals.

But people sighed with relief just a little too soon.

Whatever they had summoned to protect their little community wasn't yet done.

The post master, Tom O'Grady, bought it in the back storage room of his depot, found hanging from the ceiling fan by his own tie.

The district nurse, Ellie Green, was taken down by a violent case of food poisoning.

Mike Bodkin, owner of the local bar, narrowly missed having his head blown off when the shotgun above the bar became mysteriously dislodged from its display shelf above the entrance. He swore until he was blue in the face the padlock holding it in position was kept clean, well oiled and fully locked. That, and the weapon had been decommissioned in recent years, indicated something was amiss.

Additionally, all these events took place within twelve hours of each other.

The deaths of the rich suit, the lawyers, and the construction workers, all occurred within eighteen hours.

Whatever they had summoned to protect their village, it was stepping up its attacks.

Like a bad episode of The A Team, John had quickly figured out what was going on and confronted the locals. Of course, an argument ensued with lots of shouting, angsting, crying, wailing and gnashing of teeth, until he was able to convince them that summoning the spirit world was not the answer, and was essentially a bad, no, try _fucking stupid_ idea.

"You people are in way over your heads," John had scolded, angrily. "What the hell did you think you were doing? Summoning the dead to take care of your dirty business has got to be the most _stupid _thing I ever heard."

He was bombarded with excuse after excuse.

How they didn't have any choice…

"There's always a choice!"John had roared back at them. "You could have called in government help."

How they didn't want any outside influences involved…

"You had the feds and reporters here. I'd say it's a little late to be worried about that!"

Eventually they had all stood around, some staring at the sky, some shuffling their feet awkwardly, all with the air of naughty, petulant school kids after a severe telling off from their Principal for talking during class.

When John went on to tell them that what they'd done was to essentially commit murder, some of them actually started crying, and explained they had no idea it would go that far. That it was just meant to scare the outsiders away, but once it all started they just couldn't stop it.

John had shaken his head in despair. "Next time, fake it for God sake! Dress up in a sheet or something…!"

What they'd _done_, was to summon their ancestors. Notably, the locals that died weren't technically _local_, in the sense it was widely felt that anyone whose parents hadn't been born here, were traditionally considered as _outsiders_.

The O'Grady family came from Ireland and moved into the community just before Tom was born.

Ellie Green was from another village a few hundred miles away, but married the local doctor shortly after meeting him at a conference.

Bodkin originally came from Leeds, England. So, definitely not a local…

John could easily see the pattern.

The spirit, or spirits, had moved on to attacking the little community itself Terminator-style: Skynet was programmed to eliminate all threats, the bugger being, of course, that it also came to see _all_ humans as a threat.

And that was what John worried about the most.

His own family were relatively safe, with salt lines in the motel room, and both his sons were armed with rock salt should trouble head their way.

So he demanded to see... _it!_

With heavy reluctance, mostly brought on by shame, the people showed him their little altar, the summoning ritual, and the black candles, which he immediately upturned, sprayed with accelerant and set light to, much to the annoyance of the resident fire fighter – _whose fire fighting equipment consisted of a bucket of sand or water, depending on the nature of the fire._

John couldn't quite comprehend a group of people so monumentally stupid, that they hadn't thought to disassemble the apparatus that caused all the trouble to start with.

The altar's desecration seemed to do the trick, though John was adamant they also showed him the burial sites of their ancestors, just to be on the safe side. The people had _ummed _and _ahhed _and once again adopted the petulant school child approach.

Turned out, they hadn't a clue where the burial sites were, though eventually some partially deaf, toothless wonder in his nineties had been nudged awake, whereupon John used a well known and often successful method of communication, namely to shout and gesticulate wildly. The old coot vaguely gestured in turn at the woods surrounding the churchyard.

John didn't have a clue what he was saying, but thankfully one of the school teachers managed a translation.

The main bulk of the ancestors had been buried together in a mass grave after being wiped out by…

And there were various mutterings about which particular beastly infection had been the cause, before someone piped up and tentatively suggested:

"We think it was cholera, though it could have been typhoid, and my grandfather once said he thought it was tuberculosis."

John had eyed them carefully, tamping down his frustration.

"Wow."He'd deadpanned. "That's real helpful. Thank you."

But given that some of the deaths weren't down to cholera/typhoid/tuberculosis John felt it was necessary to spend a bit of time hunting down all the potential gravesites. This meant a long library stint for the youngest Winchester and his big brother, which led on to said older brother falling victim to a common teenage complaint.

_Boredom_.

Hence, Sam, having done most of the research whilst Dean stared out the window, or flicked pieces of paper at his little brother's head when he thought he wasn't looking, was too irritable to _not_ rise to the bait.

"So, how many, Sam?"

Sam was already fast developing the scowl.

"Two mass graves, and a further six individual graves for the people killed by bullets or hanging."

Dean grinned.

"I'll take the six."

"Who says?" Sam replied indignantly, pout well on the way.

Dean held out a hand, still grinning.

"Best out of three…?"

Thirty seconds later, Sam lost.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

And so, a very disgruntled Sam was digging a very large hole in the middle of nowhere. With each and every stroke of the shovel, he cursed a blue streak, then cursed his brother, then cursed the village and its residents, then cursed his father just on general principle, then cursed the Impala for bringing them here in the first place.

Once he'd cursed his way through the entire list of suspects, he began again.

"_Stupid friggin' brother."_

"_Stupid friggin'Dad."_

"_Stupid friggin'village."_

"_Stupid friggin' people."_

"_Stupid friggin' car."_

"_Stupid friggin' ghosts."_

"_Stupid friggin' mass graves."_

The hole grew bigger, wider and deeper, but Sam didn't really notice.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean watched the flames with satisfaction. He liked this part, the smell of the accelerant, the flare of the match book, the soft _whumph_ as the long dead corpse went up. It all appealed to his inner pyromaniac, and, if he was honest, turned him on just a little. And today he got to do it _six times..._

He would never admit that aloud just in case Sam overheard, and the least ammunition that fell into the kid's lap the better, as far as Dean was concerned.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear his father and brother at work on the two mass graves, and sighed.

_Suppose I should go and help the squirt before he hurts himself._

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Sam didn't even realise he'd dug so far down until the shovel went straight through, cracking the floor holding him up, and then he was falling.

It was only a short drop but it shook him up, especially when his journey ended abruptly, dumping him into a pile of skeletons.

It was all he could do not to shriek like a girl when he opened his eyes to be confronted by a pair of eyeless sockets.

"Oh my God..." he looked around, eyes wide with horror. _"Oh my God...!"_

Even the dim light from the world above failed to disguise the utter misery of the tiny space. And he didn't think he'd ever forget the smell; it triggered his gag reflex and made his stomach churn like a vat of rancid butter.

Sam reluctantly counted ten corpses, all draped in scraps of old decaying cloth, but his heart broke when he spotted one curled in the corner of the makeshift crypt. It was holding what appeared to be a tiny skeleton, probably a baby no more than a few days old.

_So make that eleven, then, _he thought sadly.

Skeletal hands still clutched the infant tenderly to its ribcage, and Sam idly wondered if this was the child's mother.

Blinking back tears, Sam gingerly got to his feet, brushed himself down, reached up with shaking hands, and tried to pull himself up and out.

Instead, all he got for his trouble was a face full of grave dirt as the ceiling gave way a little more.

Coughing and spluttering, Sam's eyes stung and watered. Blinking rapidly and waiting for the air to clear, Sam stood as still as a statue for a few minutes.

He felt completely humiliated as he assessed his situation. There was only one way he was getting out of here...

Sam took a deep breath.

"_DEAN!"_

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean, shovel resting over his left shoulder, damn near _swaggered_ in the general direction of his little brother and the second mass grave. He wasn't hurrying. Dean never hurried; he often maintained that the only good reason for running was being chased by some supernatural fugly. Otherwise, it just wasn't cool.

After all, this was just a precautionary salt and burn; his Dad had taken care of the altar, and twelve hours later no one had died.

_Time to relax..._

A small grin made its way on to his face as his mind changed track.

What was her name again?

Cathy?

Katy?

No, wait...

Doris!

In a low cut blouse, short skirt and high heels. Slutty, _definitely _slutty. Just the way he liked it. Deep cleavage, one Dean could happily bury his head in, and more gold jewellery than Snoop Dog...

"_DEAN!"_

...If she fell in the river she'd sink to the bottom...

"_DEAN!!"_

...which meant Dean would get to dive in to the rescue...

"_DEAN!!!"_

...mouth to mouth resuscitation...

"_DEAN!!!!"_

...heart massage... Dean's grin widened into that which could only be called _filthy._

"_DEEEEAAAANNNN!!!!!"_

The grin dropped like a stone.

Dean spun round... and round again.

"Sammy? You ok?"

"_Uh... no! Not really."_

"Where the hell are you?" Picking up his pace, Dean strode through the trees. He could hear Sam's voice well enough, though it was muffled, like coming from the bottom of a pit, in fact...

"Whoa!" Rounding one more tree, he just caught himself before falling into the grave. Arms windmilling for a few seconds, Dean sought his balance then crouched down. A dust coated face with watery blue-green eyes stared up at him out of the gloom, pleading and hopeful. The grin returned. "Well, now. You really are in quite the pickle, huh?"

The pleading look turned into a glare.

"Quit messing around Dean, and get me out of here!"

"M'not entirely sure you want to," Dean scratched the back of his head with an air of false innocence. "'Cos I mean, you haven't said the magic word."

That glare intensified. "Hospital!" Sam puffed out an angry breath.

"Noooo... pretty sure that ain't the magic word, Sammy... Sam?"

Right out of the blue, Sam began coughing.

Hard.

Dean sighed.

"Ok, give me your hand."

But Sam was still coughing and it sounded like it was getting worse. He suddenly bent double, arms wrapped round his waist, and began _hacking_. Deep, harsh, _painful _sounding coughs that put Dean in mind of sealions at the zoo.

"Sammy?"

"D-de...hl'p..." Sam couldn't catch his breath, shoulders heaving, mouth gaping wide open in desperation.

Dean's eyes widened with fear. He threw himself on to his stomach and reached into the grave, grabbed hold of the kid's shirt and tugged hard.

After one last cough, followed by a loud wheeze, Sam fell silent and sagged limply in his brother's grip.

"C'mon, Sammy. I gotcha..."

But the grave was beginning to collapse, long years of peace finally disturbed, and the ground rebelled. Dust kicked up, clouding the air and smothering the boys... and the walls gave way.

Sam was slipping from Dean's grasp, seemingly unconscious and unable to help. Dean was pulled down, refusing to let go of his little brother, but nothing he did was going to stop the inevitable.

_Sammy isn't going down alone._

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_**Author's end notes:**_

_**So here we are at the start of another LIMPSAM! Fic.**_

_**Cheers darlings.**_

_**For those of you who have left reviews to other stories in the last 24 hours or so, I apologize for not having replied. There seems to be a problem with the site at the moment, but once it's cleared up I will drop you a line, I promise.**_

_**Kind regards,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Consumed**

**Chapter 2**

**_Author's apology:_**

**_I have been trying to like to mad to reply to your reviews, but the site just won't let me. It keeps coming up with the following:_**

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Could be result of:

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**_Anybody else suffering from this bullshit? Or is it something I've done?_**

**_Please continue to leave your reviews... _**

**_I _am_ reading them I assure you, and many thanks to you all for your kindness. I really appreciate your support._**

**_I always make it a rule to reply to all reviews before publishing a new update._**

**_But I refuse to punish my loyal readers for this website's continued cock ups. _**

**_So here's the next chapter..._**

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Barely able to breathe through the thick dust, Dean braced himself for the final curtain call, heart pounding with fear and trying not to imagine being buried alive in a centuries old mass grave.

Then a miracle... hands reached out from nowhere, grabbing both boys and pulling them up.

Dean couldn't see for the dust. It clogged his throat, nostrils, and collected on his eyelashes, virtually blinding him, and coated the insides of his ears, rendering him partially deaf. Someone was talking but Dean didn't much care, just held his brother close, one hand at his neck, searching for a pulse.

His eyes watered and eventually cleared away enough of the grit to show him one grave-dirt coated little brother lying worryingly still in his arms.

"C'mon Sammy, please!" Dean pleaded in a dust ravaged voice, fingers frantically pressing over the boy's skin, and finding nothing. "Nononono! Sam!"

Someone was tugging on his arm and trying to get his attention.

"Get off me!" Dean tried to shrug them off, but the tugging became insistent, until he felt Sam being pulled from his arms. "Give him back! _Leave him alone!_"

A wet cloth was pushed into his hands, and another one was wiping away at his ears.

Gradually, the muffled talking grew louder as his ear canals cleared out, and Dean was able to identify the voice of his father.

"One, two, three, four... _c'mon Sammy_... five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen..."

Dean just got the last of the dirt from his eyes in time to see John swiftly tilting Sam's head back, and delivering two rescue breaths. Scrambling to his knees, Dean immediately took charge of chest compressions, his own exhausted body rallying strength from desperation.

"Helps on the way," a voice called out, and Dean noticed someone hovering in the background.

He guessed that someone was responsible for cleaning his ears out, and silently thanked them. Dean gazed with tear filled red eyes at his little brother's blue lips, skin partially cleaned of dirt, presumably when his father checked for obstructions in the kid's airway.

Several long minutes passed, or so it seemed, and just as wailing sirens signified the arrival of the paramedics, Sam gasped, took a long loud breath, and proceeded to cough his lungs up.

"Easy now. Take it slow," John murmured gently. To help ease Sam's discomfort, he pulled the boy up into his arms and began rubbing his back. "S'ok, Sammy. You're gonna be ok."

Dean puffed out a weary, yet relieved breath of his own and began gently wiping down Sam's face with the wet cloth, which turned out to be an old tee-shirt of his dad's.

"Over here! Hurry!" That someone was speaking again.

Now that he could see properly without his eyes filled with dust, or suffering the terrible distraction of a dying little brother, Dean recognised the other guy as the cemetery's care taker. The guy was striding in the direction of the approaching ambulance and waving both arms.

Dean glanced at his brother, eyes worriedly roaming the kid's face.

Sam was still unconscious but alive and breathing.

_Two out of three ain't bad, _Dean thought idly, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion. _And that's gotta be the best two._

_Right?_

His lungs felt wrecked, windpipe gritty, and throat red raw.

"Here ya go, kid."

The EMT ignored Dean's weak protests and slipped an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, similar to the one Sam now wore. The younger brother in question was being settled in the back of the ambulance, and John looked expectantly at Dean, motioning him to join Sam.

Dean didn't need to be asked twice, and as his father observed, didn't need to be asked _at all_. Normally he wouldn't even consider riding to the hospital in an ambulance, but when it came down to a choice, namely suck it up or risk being separated from his little brother, Dean didn't hesitate.

John helped Dean up the steps, sat him down, and pulled a blanket round his shoulders when he broke out into a brutal round of coughing.

"Take it easy, son," John rubbed his back and watched carefully as an IV line was set up for both his kids. "Just relax, now."

Once the coughing eased off, Dean nodded absentmindedly. He couldn't take his eyes off Sam.

The kid was so still and pale, an expression of almost sadness etched on his young face. Dean wondered what he'd seen in that grave; something heart breaking knowing Sammy. Graves weren't exactly happy places, sure, but _mass_ graves were a different matter altogether. The biggest Dean had ever encountered contained five corpses, all victims of poverty and illness, but he just treated it like any other salt and burn, and moved on. No point in dwelling on what needed to be done.

But Sammy was different, and Dean felt a sudden pang of guilt.

_He'd_ sent Sam down there to work on that grave, and in so doing had almost sent him to his death.

"Oh God!" Dean spluttered into his oxygen mask and closed his eyes against the pain in his chest. It wasn't caused by anything physical, just the shock of having nearly lost his kid brother. "My fault..." he started shaking his head and tried to remove the mask. "MY FAULT!"

"Dean! Stop that!" John grabbed his hands, pushing them down and away from the mask. "Calm down for God's sake..." he hailed one of the EMTs, "Hey! I think he's going into shock!"

Within seconds Dean's IV was hit with a hefty dose of happy juice, and the older brother went out like a light.

John smiled worriedly and pushed the kid down, then lifted his legs until he was laying full length on the spare gurney.

"Thanks guys," he backed out of the ambulance, nodded to the EMTs, and took one last glance at his babies before the doors slammed shut.

If there had been room, he'd have gone with them without question.

Every moment he spent apart from his boys felt like a knife cutting deeper and deeper into his heart. Pushing back the guilt until a more convenient time, John turned and nearly bumped into the care taker.

"Lewis, I meant to thank you for helping my boys," John smiled warmly, and shook his hand. "Don't think they'd be alive now if not for you happening by."

Lewis shrugged a little bashfully. A ruggedly handsome guy in his late forties, he clearly wasn't used to being thanked. But then, John supposed, not many people got up from the grave to pay a compliment on how well the roses were being kept, or to generally comment on a job well done.

_At least, not often. _John thought with a knowing smirk.

"Sure thing," Lewis finally spoke, though his voice was timid and hard to hear. "It was the least we could do for you guys, after everything you've done for this village. If you hadn't put a stop to all those killings, it... it might have been me next." He added on seeing John's questioning gaze, "I'm originally from New Zealand, though I've lived here around twenty years now."

"I wondered, just couldn't place the accent," John offered a friendly grin, but shifted from foot to foot, anxious to be off after his boys.

Lewis seemed to understand, however, because he nodded in the direction of the gates.

"You go see to your sons," the guy grinned back and gave a small salute before loping off across the cemetery.

All in all, John reflected, as he gunned the engine of his truck and took off like a bat out of hell; it had been one of the strangest cases ever. For a start, the whole village had pretty much been involved in summoning the dead to take care of their problems. For another thing, no one had actually _seen_ the dead, but that didn't necessarily mean the dead hadn't put in an appearance to the victims.

_Guess we'll never know._

But mostly, and he guessed this one was a little more personal, the salt and burn had unusually been done in the open, in full public view, with _full_ _public approval._

_Usually_ the last physical stage of a case was carried out late at night, under cover of darkness where no disapproving eyes could catch them in the act, call the cops and have them arrested for grave robbing. But today, the Winchesters had turned up at the cemetery in broad daylight, carrying shovels, and even had a casual chat with Lewis about general hauntings as he unlocked the gates to let them in.

"Weird!" John shook his head with a small smile. He knew what his mind wanted him to be thinking about, but he wasn't going there. He needed to keep it together. Losing his cool now wouldn't help anyone, least of all Sam.

"He's gonna be fine, I know it," he whispered fiercely, and put his foot down harder.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

It seemed John was right, because when he got to Sam's room, also shared by Dean – _apparently he'd woken up and created all bloody hell until the doctor gave in and allowed them to share_ – both boys were awake, and already Sam was demanding to be released.

His doctor didn't look happy, and said as much before the senior Winchester could comment.

"Sam breathed in so much dust it actually smothered him. Respiratory and cardiac arrest is nothing to play around with," the doctor's dark gaze glared accusingly at his stubborn young patient.

John eyed his youngest critically, taking in the weary, dazed bloodshot eyes and pale complexion.

"I don't know, Sammy. The guy's got a point. I'd rather you stayed another night to be safe."

Sam's doctor heaved a sigh of relief.

Sam just pouted.

"C'mon Dad, I'm ok. And these damn _beds..._" he bounced a little under the blankets, "just don't feel right."

Even Dean did a double take.

"Huh?" the older brother shook his head. "Sammy, these are the best we've ever slept in!"

"It's Sam," the kid scowled. "And that's why they don't feel right. Ain't used to this. Won't be able to sleep."

Dean smirked at his grumpy brother. "So what's new, _bed-bicycle?_"

The scowl deepened with the outright, public reference to his nocturnal activities. Dean was always teasing him for what he called _The Bicycle_. Sam didn't know what happened, could never remember what he dreamt about, but apparently he was running fast and running hard whilst asleep, in sheer terror some nights, scrabbling against the bed sheets and mattress, limbs flailing round and round. To Dean it always looked like he was riding an invisible pushbike, and, after hugging and bringing the kid round, he couldn't stop laughing.

Sam had to admit it must have made a ridiculous sight, but the only thing he remembered was the utter fear and frustration when he woke up in his brother's comforting arms.

What he didn't know was that, deep down, it sometimes scared the living crap out of Dean, too.

"Look," John tried a different tact than usual. It really was that kind of a day, after all. "Just one more night, and you're out of here. Deal?"

Secretly he was hoping Sam would go for it just to help him along. The kid was so unsettled and even seemed to hate their life. John felt that a little _actual affection_ and downright bribery might alter that.

He smiled at Sam hopefully.

"I'll get you a library card? A real one?"

Sam looked suspicious.

"Does that mean..." he narrowed his eyes at John. "We actually get to stay more than a few days? _Here?_"

John faltered a little, not too sure about the wisdom in that, but just smiled. "Yep, that's exactly what I mean."

Sam nodded slowly, not exactly jumping up and down with glee like John imagined but it was a step in the right direction.

Dean, however, grinned widely. Doris - _or was it Dorothy?_ - was gonna get _real_ acquainted with The Deanster.

One glance at the discreet happy smile on Sam's face, and Dean was inwardly crowing.

_Oh YEAH baby!_

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Sam sighed. It was the third time in the space of an hour he'd caught either his father or brother glancing at him in what they probably thought was a discrete manner.

_Yeah right. Subtle as a brick as always, huh?_

He'd been released from hospital two days ago - _his doctor won out again dammit! - _and his family were watching him like hawks.

"I'm fine!" he snapped out from behind gritted teeth.

His father mumbled something about getting in some food, sent Dean a pointed look, and disappeared out the motel room door.

Truth was, Sam knew he was giving them reason to worry. He hadn't been the same since he was released from hospital. He felt _tetchy_, as though his body was being pulled and stretched like a rubber band, and it was only a matter of time before he reached breaking point. The slightest thing riled him, and he knew his family were walking on eggshells.

_I'm probably just overtired, _thought Sam with another sigh.

Also true.

He wasn't sleeping. Every time he closed his eyes skeletons grinned back at him. More than once, the tiny skeletal frame of the infant crawled towards him, emitting small mewls and occasional high pitched squeals. Sam had woken up with a barely suppressed scream.

He shuddered, still feeling the cold damp of the grave, could still almost smell the dead, their rotting flesh, hear the shifting of bone against bone, drawing near and nearer still...

"Sam! Hey! Snap out of it!"

Sam jumped in his seat, heart pounding with fear. Dean was staring at him, one hand on Sam's shoulder. When he finally secured Sam's attention, the hand slid down to his upper arm and gave a gentle squeeze.

"C'mon, dude. Talk to me. I know something's wrong," Dean's voice was so soft with concern, Sam felt tears gathering in his eyes.

"Hey, hey, hey, Sammy... aw, come 'ere," and gathered his little brother up into a tight hug.

When Sam was a toddler the 'Dean Hug' had always worked to banish his nightmares and reassure him that the creature under the bed was nothing more than a big, invisible and friendly Labrador.

Unbelievably, it still worked. Sam buried his face in Dean's neck, sniffing and hiccupping, feeling sure once the chick flick moment was over, Dean would tease him without mercy. And rightly so. Sam was _fifteen_, but behaving like a traumatised eight year old...

He couldn't have been more wrong.

After a few minutes, Sam pulled back and scrubbed at his eyes.

Dean was watching him, no glimmer of amusement or mirth, just plain concern.

"You ready to talk, kiddo?"

Sam nodded jerkily, and muttered an apology.

"M'sorry..."

"_Don't_ be." Dean reached up and gently ruffled Sam's hair. "I know something's been bugging you since... well. Ya know..."

"Yeah," Sam whispered. He raised tear-laden eyes to his brother. "I think... I think something followed me out of that grave, Dean." He watched Dean's eyes widen and panicked, his words coming out in a rush. "And I _know_ it sounds crazy, and I _know_ it's stupid, _I'm _being stupid..."

"Whoa, slow down buddy," ever the generous big brother, Dean allowed yet another chick flick moment to pass between them and slid both hands into his little brother's, gripping them tight. "I don't think you're being stupid, Sammy. Given the life we lead, we're the last people in the world to judge you. Ok? Now, tell me what you saw down there..."

Half an hour later, Sam was asleep on Dean's bed with his older brother sitting on the edge, elbows on knees. John stood by the window, back to the room and his shoulders tense.

"So," John mused, worriedly. "Sam thinks he's being haunted?"

"Not exactly," Dean sighed, running a hand gently through the kid's hair. Sam stirred, murmured his approval, snuggled a little closer to his brother and settled back down. Dean felt sure the constant contact was keeping the nightmares at bay. "He thinks something's latched on to him, but a haunting?" he shook his head. "We already tried out the EMF on him. Nada. Not a twitch."

"Hmm." John swung round and eyed the sleeping boy. "_Could_ it just be nightmares? I mean, he told you the grave held eleven bodies, one a baby. May be it just got to him?" he shrugged helplessly. He knew Sam wouldn't like this conversation, but these things had to be said. "It's understandable he'd feel this way."

Even a hardened hunter like John still had trouble dealing with cases involving kids. It hit just a little too close to home, given what could have transpired the night Mary died. If John had been just a few seconds slower, getting baby Sam from his nursery...

"I just don't know, Dad," Dean sucked on his lower lip for moment. "I _do_ know that he's tripping out, can't get a decent night's sleep without me being here. Poor kid thinks he's going crazy."

John blew out a breath of frustration.

"Well, all we can do is keep a close eye on him for now," he turned to the duffle bags lined up on the scarred old table by the window. "May be once he's settled in the new place things will even out for the kid."

Dean looked over in surprise. "You found somewhere round here?"

John winked. "Yep, Lewis the cemetery's care taker offered us his place. He's heading back to New Zealand for a month or two. His father died a week ago and there are some loose ends to clear up, a will to read, family members to fight with... you know the drill. Guy was only too happy to help us out."

"That's great!" Dean couldn't quite believe his father was really keeping his promise to Sam, but he wasn't about to start questioning the gift. "You got Sammy all signed up for school ok?"

"Yep, he starts tomorrow."

"Wow. That's fast."

"Small town with the paper work to match; might help take his mind off things." John grinned. "C'mon. Let's get moved in to our new home."

Dean didn't bother waking the kid up, just carried him out to the Impala and gently lowered him into the passenger seat.

"Sleep tight, squirt," he whispered tenderly, then headed for the driver's side.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Lewis' house was on the site of the actual cemetery, just sitting at the edge and hidden from view by a variety of tall deciduous trees. It was a four bedroom affair with a sizable pinewood veranda running round its entire circumference, and topped with a long, gently sloping roof sprinkled with ivy.

"Wow!" Dean breathed out in awe. He reached across the seat and gave his brother a gentle shake. "Hey, Sammy? Wake up! I think you're gonna wanna see this..."

"Huh? Wha...?" Sam mumbled, stretched and yawned in his seat, feeling vaguely annoyed at having been awoken from the best nap he'd managed in a while.

When he finally opened his eyes, Dean was pointing out the windshield, and Sam bolted upright when he saw the object of his brother's attention.

"Wow!" he exclaimed, unknowingly mirroring Dean's own reaction. Then he blinked; last thing Sam remembered was lying on his brother's bed, dozing off comfortably. "What is this place? What are we doing here?"

"This is our home, Sam, at least for the next couple months," Dean smirked at the surprised look on Sam's young face. "Lewis is letting us house sit while he takes care of a family tragedy."

"Lewis?" Sam's eyebrows rose to the top of his forehead. "As in 'cemetery care taker Lewis'?" Then he frowned deeply. "Doesn't he _live_ in the cemetery? _Jesus_ Dean!"

"Sam calm down, ok?" and Dean honestly hadn't realised it would be an issue, but now that he thought about it... "Look, it's right in the far corner, well away from the other... uh... _residents._ So just chill, dude. And look around ya..." he waved a hand flamboyantly, "look at how much friggin' _room_ we got here!"

Sam had to admit the place was gorgeous, just the kind of home he dreamed of, back from the main roads and busy lives, tucked away into its own quiet little corner of the world.

But the _cemetery?_

And not just any cemetery.

_The_ cemetery.

Swallowing hard and trying to keep his hands from shaking, Sam nodded. He decided it was time to suck it up and start acting grateful, considering his father, for once, had come through with a decent place to live, instead of some run down motel room.

And by the time Sam got out of the car, trudged after his older brother and entered the house itself, he felt he'd made the right decision.

Because inside awaited an even bigger surprise in the shape of the beautiful French farmhouse style kitchen, complete with a large homely looking pine table stealing all the attention at its centre. The lounge was huge and decorated in old oak, a large TV sat in the corner by the French style windows. In fact, all windows in the house were of similar design, and Sam wondered if the iron work was deliberate. After all, who would need iron the most, besides hunters?

_People who literally lived with ghosts, perhaps?_

The hallways were lined with bronze statues and brass plates; one particular piece stood out and Sam stopped to study it.

It was a rectangle of brass with an inscription in Old English lettering, and it made Sam want to cry:

_Bless this house O' Lord we pray,_

_Keep it safe by night and day._

_Bless these walls so firm and stout,_

_Keeping want and trouble out._

_Bless the roof and chimney tall,_

_Let thy peace lie over all._

_Bless this door that may it prove,_

_Ever open to joy and love._

He couldn't read the author's name, that part of the plaque was so worn away by the years, but the poem spoke of everything in Sam's heart; his craving for peace and safety, his need for a stable life with his family. Blinking back tears, Sam tried out a shaky smile.

_Well, I get all that for a few months. Can't ask for more. Right?_

"Hey Sam!" Dean called from up above. Sam looked up to see Dean leaning over the thick wooden banister, in the same pine as the kitchen. The older brother was grinning widely. "Come check out the bathroom!"

John sauntered through the front door, carrying their duffels and various weaponry to see his youngest staring up at Dean, face filled with wide eye wonder. Chuckling lightly, he jerked his chin in the direction of the stairwell.

"Go on up, son. Take a good look round."

Sam's face brightened and, unable to curb his curiosity any longer, the youngster scampered up the stairs, leaving John smiling in his wake. Smiling, that is, until he caught sight of the plaque on the wall, right where Sam had been standing, and just knew the kid had read it.

In spite of what either son believed, John did know what Sam wanted out of life.

"Oh Sammy," he whispered, sadly. "I'm sorry I can't give you this forever. But I just can't stop now... too much at stake..." _Your lives._

Hearing his sons' laughter at the top of the house, John hastily wiped at his eyes and headed into the kitchen to prepare some food. Sam hadn't eaten much over the last few days, and the kid was way too skinny for his liking. It was time to start feeding him up. He busied himself with thoughts of the cemetery and taking care of the place in Lewis' absence, which was part of the whole house sitting deal. First thing he planned on doing was finishing the salt and burn on the collapsed mass grave that damn near took both his boys' lives. The grave itself was in a dangerous state of disrepair and would need to be dug up again, carefully. John and Lewis had discussed it, and there was specialist equipment for such a task waiting in the tool shed. Once it was taken care of, John was certain Sammy would begin to feel better about the whole business. But John would handle this alone. No way were either of his sons getting anywhere near that damn grave again.

He'd start first thing in the morning. Then the Winchester family was taking a break from hunting. It was the least he owed them...

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_**Author's notes:**_

_**Yeah, Sam's feeling a bit creeped out right now, and who can really blame him? **_

_**I remember when I was 16 I met my 2**__**nd**__** cousin Clifford for the first time. Given that he'd been dead around 20 years, I'd say that was quite the accomplishment. And I still behaved like an 8 year old by throwing the bed clothes over my head in the mistaken belief that it would protect me... **_

_**I think I might have frightened the poor guy more than he frightened me, in fact.**_

_**Cheers darlings.**_

_**Kind regards,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Consumed**

**Chapter 3**

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

**_I finally managed to reply to your reviews. But another apology is needed. I realised I'd be at it all night if I replied to all your wonderful reviews from the first chapter, so I skipped those and replied to the second. That way I would have time tonight to post chapter 3._**

**_Hope that's ok with everyone. And if it means I've missed someone, then I am deeply sorry, and I will be sure to make it up to you if you review this chapter for me._**

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean and Sam were staring open mouthed at the huge bathroom near the top of the staircase.

"My god!" Dean whispered in awe. "It's bigger than our last motel room!"

"Dude! Look at the size of that bathtub!" Sam pointed with an unsteady finger. "You could hide an army in that thing!"

Dean ventured inside the moment he spotted something else of interest. He picked up the novelty wash sponge in the shape of a sheep, and showed it to Sam with a grin and a flourish.

"Oh, _he's_ from New Zealand, alright!"

Sam rolled his eyes, laughing, then hid a grimace at a small twinge in his chest.

_That didn't feel good. Guess I'm still not one hundred percent, yet._

Aloud he said: "C'mon Dean, let's go check out our bedroom."

Again, it was huge.

A large double bed complete with nightstands on either side, and _a freakin' en suite!_

Another huge TV sat just opposite, complete with a large, expensive looking music system.

The carpet was a dark blue, velvety and soft, to match the floor to ceiling curtains that lead out on to _a freakin' balcony!_

Dean strode in and dumped himself on the bed, arms crossed behind his head, and grinned smugly.

"Well, I guess this is my room, huh? Nice and big. Lots of space." And his heart clenched when Sam's face just _dropped_.

"Uh... yeah... ok. I guess I'd better..." the kid started shuffling from the room, looking miserable and scared...

_Aw hell._

"Hey Sam?"

Sam turned back, one eyebrow raised. He was trying to look nonchalant, like it didn't bother him, but Dean knew better.

"Way too big, infact. I'm just not used to having a room all on my own," Dean's grin toned down into something akin to pleading. "You wanna share with me? We can watch movies together until late. Just try not to steal the covers, ok?"

A full, relieved smile broke out on the kid's face, and Dean's heart relaxed a little. The last thing he wanted was to desert Sam when he needed him most. So Dean's own personal space was put on hold.

And done gladly.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Sam wasn't really all that hungry, but seeing the effort his father had gone to with the home made lasagne, he had to try. Taking a small bite, he agreed with his brother that it was indeed delicious, but his appetite was still fairly abysmal.

Another twinge in his chest made him splutter loudly then erupt into a long bout of coughing.

"Whoa! Easy now!" a very concerned Dean gently pounded his back, whilst his father readied a glass of water.

"S-sorry," Sam eventually mumbled when his terrible gasping subsided. "Food went down the wrong way."

Gratefully accepting the glass, he slowly sipped the cool water, but couldn't help the feeling something was very wrong.

"Feeling better, son?" John eyed him carefully, and Sam nodded.

His lungs felt irritated and sore, much like the last time he suffered a chest infection, and he was breaking out into a cold sweat.

"Can I go to the bathroom, please?" he asked quietly. At his father's nod, Sam got down from the table and headed for the stairwell.

By the time Sam got to the top he was in for another unpleasant surprise. Wheezing and out of breath, the world around him began to spin. He leaned against the wall and slid down, resting his head on his knees, waiting for the dizziness to pass. But when it did, getting up was tougher than he expected, and nearly pitched headfirst down the stairs.

Righting himself and struggling onwards, he pushed his way into the bathroom, then shut and locked the door behind him.

_Kleenex. I need Kleenex._

Sam spotted a box by the sink, snagged a few sheets, and stuffed them over his mouth and nose just as his body gave into the urge to cough up a lung.

And that wasn't the exaggeration Sam hoped for, because a post-cough autopsy of the Kleenex made his eyes widen.

Sputum and blood spotted the soft white tissue, and Sam did his best not to panic.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean grew more worried the longer Sam was away from the table, eyeing his watch and fidgeting with his empty plate. John had quietly slipped Sam's portion of lasagne into the microwave, ready to warm it up again when his youngest son re-emerged.

Slow and weary footsteps sounded from the staircase a few minutes later, and Sam appeared leaning heavily against the kitchen door frame.

"Sam, you ok?" With a loud scrape of wood on floor tile, Dean was out of his seat and closing in on his little brother. Sam wasn't looking too great, face pale, eyes red rimmed and bloodshot.

Sam shrugged and nodded, blinking slowly. "Uhuh. Just a little tired."

Dean glared at the kid. "Yeah sure," and plastered the palm of his hand over Sam's forehead, "that's why you're running a fever. 'Cos you're _tired?_ Give me a break..."

Sam didn't even wince at his brother's sarcasm, just sighed resignedly. And then suddenly two worried Winchesters were looming over him. John reached over to follow up on Dean's examination, and let out a worried grunt. He studied the kid's face and nodded.

"Probably flu or something," his father ruffled Sam's hair, smiling sympathetically. "Somehow I don't think you'll be going to school tomorrow. I'll call them in the morning."

"But Dad..."

"Sorry kiddo. You need to rest, and I don't think anyone will thank me if a flu epidemic hits the village because of us," John winked. "Lewis has quite the film collection. Might as well knock yourself out, huh?"

Dean, however, wasn't entirely convinced. "S'little quick for flu, don't you think?"

John considered that for a moment before shaking his head. "Could have picked it up from the hospital. After all, he's been under the weather ever since."

"Hmm, may be," Dean mused, staring at Sam.

Sam glanced tiredly from brother to father without complaint. Or rather, he didn't have the _energy_ to complain. They were talking about him like he wasn't even in the room, and Sam just didn't care.

"C-can I go to bed now?" he asked in a small voice. "Please? I don't feel so good..."

"You go ahead, and maybe I'll bring up some soup for you later, huh?" John murmured softly. "You might feel a little better after a good rest."

Sam sincerely doubted it but nodded gratefully all the same.

Dean wrapped an arm round his kid brother's shoulders and squeezed gently.

"C'mon squirt," he whispered. "Let's go get you comfortable."

Sam glanced up at him, eyes pleading. "We're still gonna share the room, right?"

His message was clear: _please don't leave me all alone._

"I'll be right there with you, runt," Dean replied, and gently steered the boy back towards the stairs. His real answer was equally clear.

_Never in a million years, kiddo._

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Sam kept quiet about the incident in the bathroom, mainly because he'd been a big enough nuisance to his family as it was since the grave collapsed, and for another thing, frankly, he was surprised no one had bawled him out for his stupidity and carelessness.

Yet.

_I mean, what kind of idiot lets that happen? And I nearly took Dean with me. How can he not hate me for that?_

_And those nightmares... can't even sleep on my own, can't let my brother have his own room... he must think I'm such a whiny little brat._

Sam was beginning to hate himself even if Dean wasn't.

What made it worse?

His brother took such good care of him, got him settled in bed, a cool, damp washcloth covering his forehead, offered Tylenol and water, and when Sam started shivering, got into bed, allowing Sam to curl up against him.

But he fell slowly into a restful slumber, feeling his brother's fingers carding through his hair, relaxing him and keeping the nightmares at bay.

"How's he doing?" John appeared in the doorway a while later, leaning against the frame, shirt untucked and somewhat damp. He'd taken care of the dishes as fast as possible, all the time worrying about his boys. Speed and soapy water gave the inevitable result.

Dean looked up and smiled sadly. "He's got a chest infection, I think. Started coughing in his sleep, but he soon settled down." He frowned suddenly. "Dad? Do you have the local doctor's number handy?"

"Dr Green?" John grimaced, remembering the poor guy was now a widower, his wife Ellie having been a victim of the locals' sick games. "Yeah, got it right here." He pulled his cell phone from the rear pocket of his jeans with a flourish. Eyeing his sons with concern, he shifted uncomfortably. "You want me to stay in here tonight?"

It might have seemed strange to an outsider, the father asking permission from his oldest son to help watch out for the youngest, but Sammy was a responsibility Dean had proudly, and with great love, accepted long ago. It was a polite protocol that had been developed over the years, and seemed as normal to the Winchesters as breathing.

Dean shook his head. "It's ok Dad. You go get some sleep. You got that grave to deal with tomorrow."

John's sad gaze moved over Sam's peaceful face. "Yeah. Poor kid. He's been through so much..."

"I know. But he'll be ok, Dad," Dean replied, feeling a little more confident now that his little brother was sleeping soundly. "It's just flu, after all."

He would come to regret saying that a few hours later.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean was brutally ripped out of a dream involving the entire female cast of Friends, tequila shots and a large tub of chocolate ice cream. Loud painful barks filled the room and he wondered when the pack of wild dogs had moved in.

But it was Sam.

Sam was struggling to breathe, back arching off the bed right next to him, eyes wild with desperation.

"Sammy..."

Dean pulled his little brother into a sitting position, then rested the kid's back against his own chest.

"Take it easy, kiddo. Just calm down and breathe." Thinking it was a nightmare, Dean adopted the usual protocol entitled: Operation Sammy's Subconscious.

But it was when he turned on the bedside lamp and saw the blood he started yelling for his father.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

John's response to hearing his first born screaming for help was fairly typical. He was off the bed, out the bedroom door and half way down the hallway before he was even fully awake, .45 tucked securely in the waistband of his jeans. He hadn't bothered changing or even climbing under the bed clothes, just laid on top, ready for anything.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he called out anxiously, just before he entered Sam and Dean's bedroom. Getting a good look at Dean's scared face, John's strides picked up speed, and his eyes slid to Sam's. "Oh God..."

Dean cradled his little brother's back against his chest, supporting his chin with one hand and rubbing the kid's chest with the other. Sam appeared to be wheezing and coughing badly, and even as John watched the boy coughed up more blood, grimacing in pain with each movement.

"Dad, call Dr Green," Dean needn't have said anything, because John was already speed dialling.

Vaguely listening in on the call, Dean whispered to Sam, told him everything was going to be ok, though a part of him doubted it. He'd never felt so helpless, never seen his little brother so sick...

"Yeah, I know it's late, Dr Green, but it's my youngest boy," John was saying, voice sounding worried. "I thought it was the start of flu but now I'm not so sure..."

Dean glanced up and caught John's eye. They stared at each other as John continued to listen to the physician's response.

"Uhuh... he's running a fever, coughing up blood..."

Suddenly John nodded and Dean felt the relief flooding through his veins. Dr Green was going to pay them a visit.

"D'n?" Sam's breathless whisper caught Dean's attention.

"S'ok kiddo. Doc Green's on his way," Dean gazed down at his brother, noting the sickly pallor and tired, heavily blinking eyes. _How the hell did he get sick so quickly? How come I didn't notice sooner?_

Tears spilled down Sam's face, making Dean's heart clench painfully.

"Don't cry buddy," he whispered, tightening his hold on Sam. "The Doc's gonna make you feel all better in no time, I promise."

"H-hurts... b-bad..." the kid murmured back, wincing on another cough that produced more blood flecked sputum. Dean sniffed sadly and wiped the mess from Sam's mouth with a fresh Kleenex.

"Yeah, I know. I know..." Dean began to slowly but gently rock his kid brother, trying to keep him calm. "But it won't be for long, Sammy."

"Thanks, Doc. I'll leave the outside light on and the gates unlocked..." Dean heard his father end the call.

"Well? What's the verdict?" he knew he was jumping the gun a little, but patience was never one of Dean's greatest strengths.

John shook his head. "He refuses to comment until he's examined Sam himself."

He disappeared into the en suite and emerged with a fresh washcloth and a bowl of cold water a few seconds later. "I'm gonna head outside and wait for the guy. You keep on bathing Sam's face and neck; try to get his temperature down."

"Sure." Dean nodded miserably, and his father moved quickly and silently to the bedroom door.

"Hey Dean?" John paused, turned back and offered up a weak smile. "He's gonna be ok. You know that, right?"

Swallowing hard, Dean wiped the washcloth over Sam's fevered brow.

"Yeah."

But Dean wasn't convinced in the slightest.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean and John watched from the door as Dr Green examined the youngster. Sam, in turn, watched the physician, eyes dazed and heavy with pain and fatigue. The Doc, his face mostly obscured by a green surgical mask, was a middle aged guy with sad brown eyes and a kindly demeanour. He looked like he hadn't been eating properly though, and John could understand that. His own diet had been pretty questionable for a long while after Mary died.

Doc Green had insisted on being referred to by his Christian name, Charles, which immediately put his young patient's family at their ease.

He murmured softly to the sick boy, his ministrations slow and gentle, trying not to frighten the poor kid because it seemed he really didn't understand what was going on, and the sudden appearance of a doctor in a surgical mask and gloves was probably freaking him out.

Sam whimpered softly from time to time, and it was all Dean could do not to go to him when blue-green eyes sought his big brother, blinking hard, confusion and fear shining brightly.

It seemed the initial examination was over; Dean and John both tensed up when Charles took off his stethoscope and pulled out a cell phone.

"This is Dr Charles Green calling from Lewis Jenkins' house at the village cemetery. I'm going to need an ambulance right away..."

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Once again Dean travelled with Sam in the ambulance, whilst John followed on with the Impala.

Trying hard not to panic, the older brother didn't dare look away from the kid, but watching scared him all the more.

The inside of Sam's oxygen mask was tinged with red splatters from the furious bouts of coughing, but the pain meds were quickly working on the kid, calming and pushing him under. Dean idly wondered if it worth asking for some to calm himself down.

He kept well out of the way but always had a tight hold of his little brother's hand, squeezing and rubbing gently whenever the boy let out a soft muffled moan.

"I'm right here, Sammy. Just open your eyes for me, that's all ya gotta do. Open your eyes and you'll see me; I'm right beside you..." Dean kept muttering over and over. Sam's eyelids fluttered open from time to time, the pupils blown from fever, and probably all the drugs. The occasional weak squeeze on Dean's hand told him that Sam was fighting hard to stay with him, however, and that had to count for something.

"That's it, little bro. You're gonna be fine..."

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean and John were seated many hours later in the ICU waiting room, trying not to glance at their watches, jiggling their left legs, and occasionally getting up for a good hard pace. It didn't make the time fly by, and it didn't serve to re-enforce their flagging patience. The best they could say? Pacing a groove in the tiled floor was less painful than punching a hole in the wall, though Dean secretly admitted it was still on the cards.

The coffee was terrible, naturally, but at the least the receptionist was sweet and sympathetic, even if she wasn't far off her two hundredth birthday. So sweet, in fact, that Dean turned when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, to find her holding out the TV remote and nodding at the TV set in the corner of the room.

"There's no one else around. Why don't you just relax and choose a channel?"

Dean really wasn't in the mood, but gratefully accepted the offering, surprised when she covered his hand with her own wizened paw and gave it an affectionate pat.

She didn't say a word, just nodded, smiled and returned to her desk.

Blinking back moisture Dean sat next to his Dad and hit the standby button on the remote.

Neither Winchester was particularly paying much attention, but to their surprise it did serve as a distraction, because John glanced at his watch to find that another six hours had passed them by, just as Charles pushed through the doors to the waiting room.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen." Charles indicated a tall, grey haired man standing behind him. The fact that both doctors were wearing surgical masks didn't pass unnoticed. "This is Dr Roger Fletcher, the consultant microbiologist for this hospital. He's been assisting in Sam's examination. Roger, this is Sam's father, and this is his older brother, Dean."

John raised an eyebrow but shook hands with the consultant, and waited as Dean did the same before asking "What's wrong with my boy? Is he going to be ok?"

If Dr Fletcher felt intimidated or crowded by the senior Winchesters as they advanced on him he didn't show it, merely nodded his head in the direction of the double doors. "Let's go talk in my office where it's a little more private."

The swinging doors moved without so much as a squeak as the four men passed through.

Dean decided he really didn't like this. The atmosphere was too polite, formal and professional, and didn't set him at ease one iota.

As soon as they were seated in a decent sized office, with an exam table in one corner and a large oak table in the other, Roger offered coffee, which was declined by all.

"Let me cut to the chase," began Roger, elbows on desk, hands clenched in front of him. Dean felt his temper deflate a little when it appeared the guy was a straight shooter. "Young Sam is very seriously ill, as I'm sure you already understand. I've organised various different investigations, and although it may take a few weeks for the blood and sputum culture results to come back, I do have a... _ahem_... rather shocking theory..."

Dean's fingers curled over his knees, nails digging into the faded denim. He wasn't sure just how much of this he could take, but when the microbiologist – or Bug Guy as Dean came to call him – delivered his verdict, both Winchesters were frozen in their seats, eyes wide and swivelling helplessly between the two doctors.

"From the chest x-rays and general physical examination, I believe Sam has developed an active tuberculosis infection," Roger smiled sadly and shook his head. "Yes, I know. Given that he only presented symptoms of illness just a few hours ago, it does seem a little difficult to swallow..."

"A little..." John leapt up, and paced over to the exam table and back. Running a hand through his hair, trying to stay in control, John took a deep breath. "Are you absolutely sure about this? There's no way it could be flu?"

Charles kept quiet, but it seemed the two doctors had debated and argued more than once over the diagnosis.

Bug Guy shrugged. "Highly unlikely. And besides, I also performed a serological tuberculin skin test on your son. Now these aren't always conclusive and can be unreliable, but Sam responded accordingly. Which is why I must ask if either of your boys have been immunized against TB in the past."

John gaped and stuttered. "Uh... I'm not sure. Mary, that's my wife, took care of that when the boys were little... all our personal medical details were destroyed in the fire that killed her..."

"Excuse me for asking, but how old would Sam have been when you lost your wife?" Charles interrupted kindly.

"He was exactly sixth months old. Why?"

"And he's had no other vaccinations since?"

"Only the usual; tetanus, measles..."

"Not the BCG jab? It would have been for TB."

"Not to my knowledge, no." John frowned. "Come to think of it, I don't believe I was vaccinated until I was posted overseas."

Seeing the curious look on Charles' face, John explained.

"I was in the marines before I met Mary."

"Actually," Roger continued. "The BCG jab is no longer widely used in this country, or the UK, so it's quite conceivable neither of your sons have been vaccinated, depending on where they were born."

"Lawrence, Kansas," Dean replied automatically, and realised it was the first thing he'd said since hearing his brother's possible diagnosis.

"That settles it, unfortunately," Roger responded immediately. "It's highly unlikely they would have bothered in recent years. Kansas is fairly rural with little poverty; where TB is concerned there's a possible link to overcrowding and poor nutrition."

He paused to take in the stunned and frightened faces of Sam's small family.

"Which brings me on to my next point."

John and Dean tensed up like a couple of soldiers on the parade square.

Were they about to be bombarded by a barrage of questions concerning their lifestyle?

_Shitty motels, dingy apartments, and crappy food..._

If that was the case then they had no option but to tell the truth. Sam's life depended on it.

But they needn't have worried.

"I'd also like you two to undergo the skin test," Roger spoke carefully, as though trying not to scare them any further. "TB is spread by coughing from person to person, and if Sam does indeed have active TB, then there's a chance you guys could be infected too."

Dean blinked.

_That explains the masks!_

John flinched.

_Oh Shit!_

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_**Author's notes:**_

_**Oh Shit, indeed. So, have the entire Winchester family been infected? Or is there something else going on here?**_

_**Onwards...!**_

_**Please remember my warnings and disclaimers from the first chapter with regards to medical/historical facts. Seriously, any smart-arsed reviews about it will not be appreciated.**_

_**Cheers everyone.**_

_**Kind regards,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Consumed**

**Chapter 4**

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

After a long battle against the darkness, Sam finally wrenched open his eyes to be met with a dimly lit room, and knew immediately where he was.

Huffing with frustration into the oxygen mask, Sam wondered where his family were, if they were nearby, if they were sick too.

_Hope not. I feel like shit... don't want Dad and Dean to feel this way... what's wrong with me?_

He tried to lift an arm but the energy needed to carry out the action seemed to evade him, and the painful pull when he attempted it revealed a canular of IVs piggybacked across his hand.

Sam wondered just what merry concoction of drugs was being pumped into him, and figured it must have been pretty powerful, because he could feel the pull of sleep again, and though he'd rather wait to find out what had happened to Dean and his Dad, somehow he guessed he wasn't going to be given much of a choice. And it panicked him.

On the verge of slipping away, he heard a door open somewhere nearby, and a familiar voice called to him, easing his anxiety.

"Sammy? It's ok. We're here now."

_Dean..._

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean eyed the needle warily, but didn't flinch when it burrowed smoothly under the skin of his forearm.

"So, what is this exactly?" he asked, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt.

Roger smiled from underneath the surgical mask, the fabric creasing and wrinkling.

"It's fairly straight forward, nothing to worry about," he pressed the plunger on the syringe as gently as possible. "This is the Tuberculosis Skin Test, also known as Mantoux. I've injected a tiny amount of protein from the bacteria under your skin..."

"What?" snapped Dean, eyes comically wide with fear and anger. "You _trying _to make me sick?"

"It's ok," Roger laughed lightly. "There's no live bacteria involved. We'll check the injection site in 48 to 72 hours; if there's a small bump present then that means your body has recognised the protein. The strength of that recognition will depend on the size of the bump. But it won't actually _cause_ disease"

Dean nodded in relief, then suddenly thought of something.

"You said 48 to 72 hours, right?"

Roger refused to look at his patient as he packed away his equipment and disposed of the needle and syringe.

"Yes, that's right. Why do you ask?"

Dean was watching him closely and could swear the Bug Guy grimaced under that mask.

"You also said you did this same test on Sam..."

Sighing wearily, Roger nodded. "Yes, but..."

Dean's nostrils flared. "How long did it take for his skin to react?"

"Uh..." Bug Guy was definitely looking uncomfortable.

"How long?" Dean persisted, demanding an answer.

"Pretty much straight away," Roger finally met his gaze, eyes filled with sympathy. "And quite... _drastically_, it has to be said."

"And how often has that happened," Dean chose his words carefully, "in your experience?"

Roger stared at him for a long moment, and Dean correctly interpreted his meaningful look.

_Try never._

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean and John were soon reunited outside Sam's room with Charles and Roger.

"Here, I suggest you wear these, just in case." Charles held out two more fabric masks, to which Dean shook his head.

"No way. I'm not scaring him like that," he answered, face set in a determined scowl, "and besides, you already said the chances are we're already infected. I want Sammy to see my face, not a mask," Dean crossed his arms in defiance.

When John stood behind his oldest son, one hand on the kid's shoulder in silent support, both clinicians knew they were fighting a losing battle.

And besides, he did have a point.

Roger sighed and nodded. "Ok..."

He led the way into Sam's room, the dim light just picking out a forlorn looking shape on the bed. The youngest Winchester let out a soft noise and slowly rolled his head towards the door, the pillow giving way.

Dean's hard, determined gaze softened at the sight.

"Sammy..."

The poor kid was pale, still, and incredibly thin, the illness having taken him in a firm grip, his body already beginning to waste away. He'd been coughing again but not as bad as before, and he appeared to be in a deep sleep.

"How are you treating him?" John asked in a low voice, reaching out to stroke away a few damp strands of hair from Sam's forehead, whilst Dean sat down and grasped a limp hand.

"A cocktail of antibiotics, mainly Isoniazid and Rifampicin. Those are the classic, heavy duty drugs used to treat TB, and your average patient would have to be on these for 6 to 12 months. Right now we also have him infused with Pyrazinamide and Ethambutol for the short term, which is standard operating procedure. But it also means we'll have to monitor his liver function." Roger finally took a breath and delivered the punch line: "That's if he survives."

The following silence was loaded with grief.

Dean was quick to _unload_ it.

"He'll survive it, Doc. Don't you worry 'bout that!" he snarled, eyes narrowed.

Roger and Charles exchanged a glance.

"I spent several years working amongst tuberculosis sufferers in Africa," Roger spoke quietly, "but I've never seen a case progress this quickly. The antibiotics will help him fight it, and we can keep him comfortable... but Sam's chances of survival are extremely slim." He cleared his throat and stared Dean in the eye. "I really am terribly sorry, but there's little more we can do for him. The rest is up to Sam."

Dean gaped, swallowed convulsively, blinked, shifted in his seat, squeezed his brother's hand a few times; all this before he could bring himself to speak again.

"He'll live," he nodded as if to confirm it aloud made it a certainty. "Sam's gonna be fine. I'll see him through this... he'll be ok... he's not gonna die..."

John felt his heart breaking. Sam was dying, scrambling Dean's mind in the process, and John had absolutely no idea how to stop it.

_For all I know, Dean and I could be next anyhow._

But that was the defeatist in him talking. There was plenty he could do.

Research was the name of the game, and John made up his mind to start... _right now!_

"I need to know what to expect," John's gruff, no nonsense tone took everyone by surprise. Even Sam stirred in his sleep. "What's gonna happen next?"

Roger nodded in agreement. "I'll tell you everything you need to know. But let's take this outside, shall we?"

With a final glance at his sons, John made his way out of the room. It was a snapshot that would stay with him for years.

Sam looked nothing like a fifteen year old, more like five, swamped by the huge bed, and countless monitors surrounding it. Dean didn't even seem to notice his father and the two doctors were leaving the room. His attention was solely on his little brother; not even an earthquake was going to shift it.

"Well?" John asked immediately the door closed behind him.

"Ok..." Roger launched rather reluctantly into a brief lecture on tuberculosis, and a few minutes later John was looking sick and pale.

He'd learned a few new words in a very short space of time, _extrapulmonary_ tuberculosis being chief among them: according to Dr Fletcher, in some cases of active TB the infection moved from the lungs to cause all kinds of problems elsewhere in the body. It was a process that usually took weeks.

Sam had only been diagnosed a few hours ago, and already he was developing tuberculosis pleurisy. Meningitis was a possibility. The lymph nodes could be next, as were the bones and joints, and even the genitourinary system wasn't safe.

_Miliary_ TB was added to John's internal dictionary along with its horrifying explanation: disseminated TB, a particularly serious form of the disease, could result in enlarged liver and spleen, inflammation of the pancreas, adrenal insufficiency and multiple organ dysfunction.

The various other methods to assist monitoring also sounded downright terrifying.

_Bronchoscopy_ was discussed, along with CT/MRI, _fundoscopy_, and the one that really made John's head spin _open lung biopsy..._

John stamped down his fear and panic, needing something to keep him busy. He had work to do.

"Right. Where's the nearest library?"

Charles and Roger shared another glance.

"Until we have the results of your skin tests, I really don't think..."

"Seriously doc?" John roughly rolled up his sleeve and presented the site of the test for inspection. "If the way it's raging through my youngest boy is anything to go on, don't you think we'd have a reaction by now?"

"Yes, but it can take 24 hours..." Roger began, but John swiftly interrupted.

"Take a look," John's brown eyes gleamed under the strip lights. "I already had the BCG and there's _still_ no bump, right?"

"Well, after five years the body usually shows no reaction," Roger sighed suddenly. "But, you're right. If you were susceptible, you and Dean would have gotten sick by now. This one is just too aggressive..." he rubbed at his eyes when his pager went off, and the poor guy suppressed a groan. "I'm sorry, I have to take this call."

John drew in a shaky breath and Charles watched the consultant's retreat to the nearest phone.

"I really am very sorry, John," offered Charles, quietly. "We all know what you and your boys have done for this village, and this is how we repay you... God! You should have just left us all to die..."

Gathering his strength and wits, John smiled grimly. "Sammy ain't dead yet. There's still time."

_There has to be a way. There's __**always**__ a way._

Spells, cleansing rituals, any kind of holistic therapy... John was even prepared to discover whether Robert Johnson was mad or just plain lying his ass off, and seek out the nearest cross roads.

His ears picked up the soft muttering of the consultant a few feet away.

"Maybe it's time to call in CDC. This could be a new, faster acting strain of the disease, one which attacks younger teenagers..."

John's heart sank.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

"Dean..."

"I'm here, kiddo," Dean whispered in his little brother's ear.

The kid had been sleeping restlessly for the last half hour, but whatever was going on in Sam's head, whatever nightmares were assaulting him, they weren't letting up. If anything, it was getting worse.

"D-Dean..." Sam fought a battle with the pillow, his head rolling from side to side as though trying to flatten it. His soft whimpers turned into loud, harsh cries of fear, and all his big brother could do was hold him close.

"Sammy, c'mon wake up, now," Dean begged and pleaded, eyes brimming with tears. "It's just a dream. It can't hurt you... oh God!"

Pushing back a little, Dean stared at his little brother's face. Sam was crying in his sleep, and there was nothing unusual about that. The _colour_ of his tears, however, was another matter entirely.

Red-orange streaked down Sammy's face, staining the plastic of his oxygen mask and the collar of his sleep shirt as it dripped off his chin. Dean did two things _almost_ simultaneously. Firstly, he hammered on the call button. Secondly, barely a nanosecond later he dipped a finger in the warm liquid and ran from the room, yelling for help.

"Son…?" John caught hold of him, swinging him round. "What is it? Tell me…"

Dean held up his finger. "Something's gone wrong… Sam was crying…"

John stared, open mouthed at the dark orange liquid.

Roger stepped in before the Winchester melt down became irreversible.

"It's ok, that's the treatment he's on," he handed over a Kleenex, and helped Dean wipe it off. "It's one of the side effects of Rifampicin; it turns body fluids red-orange, but I can assure you that it's completely benign."

Dean gulped. "But you said… S-Sam's liver needed monitoring."

"Yes, that's true," Roger directed him to a chair by Sam's room. "There _are_ adverse side effects to the treatment, but we're watching him carefully, I promise you."

"So… this is normal?" Dean sniffed, and rubbed his eyes. He couldn't remember ever feeling so exhausted.

"Yep, 'fraid so," Roger plastered on a smile. "And now to the good news. Your skin tests are negative for TB." He gently rolled up Dean's sleeve to prove it.

Dean blinked. "But… I thought you said…"

"Yeah, but you're father is quite right. Given how fast the infection is progressing with your brother, I think it's likely you would have shown signs and symptoms by now."

There was a small silence as father and son took that in. Perhaps they should have been jumping for joy; they _were _in the clear after all, but somehow they just didn't feel like celebrating.

Dean got up without a word, head hung, face pale, and trudged back into Sam's room to take his place at the kid's bedside.

John scrubbed a hand over his face and managed a weak smile of thanks for Sam's doctors, then followed his oldest boy in much the same dejected manner.

Somehow, he just couldn't leave his sons just yet.

The library would have to wait...

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

At around two am Dean was resting, head on crossed arms, crossed arms on Sam's bed. John snoozed in the corner of the room, head back, body sprawled out in what looked like a damned uncomfortable position.

They woke periodically whenever an ICU nurse, dressed in regulation green scrubs, plastic apron and surgical gloves, entered the room quietly to check on the patient.

This one's name was Daisy. A pretty eyed twenty-something with long elegant fingers and willowy, slender body. Dean was also fairly certain there was an equally pretty smile hidden under the mask, but really couldn't bring himself to care.

Sam started struggling weakly against the nurse, gasping and coughing painfully.

"Shhh, I'm just drawing some more blood, Sam," she cooed, eyes soft with concern.

"Nnnnooooo… st-stay 'way from me…" Sam twitched and bucked in panic.

John jerked awake, scrambled off his seat and made his way quickly to the youngster's bed.

"Sammy, c'mon dude," Dean had moved like a hellfire missile and was sitting up on the bed, holding his brother down before Daisy could even blink. "Calm down and let the lady help you…"

He cursed inwardly. Sam hated being spoken to like a toddler, but there was something so vulnerable and kid-like about him when he was desperately sick.

_Dying…_

Dean shrugged it off immediately, but something deep inside him knew the truth when he heard it.

"It's ok, son," John stroked the poor kid's damp hair, trying hard to ignore the dark orange tinge to his tears.

Daisy nodded, whispered her thanks, and continued her examination. But Sam flinched when her hands lightly pressed on his abdomen, and Daisy frowned worriedly, muttered a quiet 'excuse me for a moment' and hurried from the room.

Dean stared fearfully after her retreating back.

"Dad?" he whispered, uncertainly.

But John was staring at the door, almost willing it to open up to good news for Sam. Just like the brass plaque at Lewis' house.

_Bless this house oh Lord we pray…_

"How did it go?" John muttered to himself when he began to struggle with the remaining lines of the verse.

_Bless this door that may it prove,_

_Ever open to joy and love._

Daisy returned to the room, deep in conversation with Dr Fletcher, and Dean only caught brief snatches. None of it sounded good.

"…swollen and painful left upper quadrant… appearance of jaundice… severe pyrexia…"

Roger nodded his shoulders tense, as though dreading the thought of delivering more bad news.

Another gentle examination of his patient, and he turned to John and Dean. The doctor looked utterly bewildered, scared even.

"I'm afrai…" Roger's words cut off around a choking noise. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm very much afraid that Sam's condition has deteriorated further. His liver is now under attack, and not just from the drugs, and I suspect MRI/CT scans at this stage will reveal much more damage to his lungs."

The Winchesters stared back at him, and Roger never felt so sad and lost.

This family had saved the people of this village from themselves, righted a terrible wrong, and now the youngest was dying.

He didn't have the words. Just shook his head.

"How long?" John's voice was hoarse with unshed tears, but his tone still demanded the truth, and nothing but.

Roger bit his lip. It was the only way he could keep from crying at the injustice of it all.

"Frankly, I'll be amazed if he makes it through to dawn," he mumbled, reluctantly. "I'll continue to do everything I can for him, put a vent on standby, keep him comfortable." Running a hand through his hair, he added "maybe I can try another antibiotic, uh… streptomycin or... uh... something…"

All the blood drained from Dean's face. "No… NO!"

His cry echoed round the room, bouncing off the walls and windows, and broke every heart present all over again.

"Son…" John sniffed miserably, and pulled the kid into a tight hug, trapping Dean's arms when he started struggling. "Stop it." The hiss was sympathetic but authoritative, and Dean stopped moving for a second. "It'll be ok… it'll be ok… I can fix this, Dean. I can fix this…"

Daisy and Roger quietly left the room to its three occupants, joining a very solemn Charles in the waiting room.

"Dad…"

John felt Dean's intense gaze. His son trusted him to find the answer, to save his little brother. And there was only one thing left to try.

"Dean, I want you to wait here," he ordered, pushing all emotion aside and bringing forth the drill sergeant. "You stay with Sam, and you don't come after me. No matter what. Understood?"

Dean knew better than to question a direct order, but this time was different.

"What are you gonna do?"

John stared him straight in the eye.

"What ever it takes."

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_Sam shivered in fear._

_He knew where he was._

_He was back in that damn grave. Back where it was dark and smelled of damp and the dead. Completely unarmed, no rock salt to defend himself, Sam listened with rising terror to the familiar sound of rustling, bone grating on bone, the mewling and wailing…_

"_Oh God," he whispered. "Please, no…"_

_And suddenly the child was right there, grinning up at him, eyeless sockets gleaming soullessly in the darkness. But it was the blood ejecting from its fleshless mouth with each gut churning, wrenching cough which had Sam scrambling backwards as best he could, his movements sluggish and just… __**wrong.**_

_Another movement in the shadows caught his attention, and something else was crawling towards him. _

_More grating, more ominous rustling, but this was bigger… much bigger._

_Closer, ever closer, until a blood covered skeletal hand reached out and touched him…and spoke._

'_My boy... should have lived…_

_You… you will join us… you woke us… you will join us…'_

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean stared back at his father, momentarily speechless. He didn't know what John had planned but it couldn't be anything safe. If he didn't voice his concerns now, Dean got the feeling he would never get another chance.

"Dad, please. Just tell me…"

He didn't get to finish because Sam's eyes flew open and a gurgling noise issued from his throat.

"D'n… he-lp…"

John and Dean responded to Sam's distress call by moving in perfect sync. Their heads snapped round, and their bodies moved on autopilot.

"Sam… Sammy?" Dean grasped Sam's fever-flushed face between his hands. "Listen to me, ok? Just calm down and listen to me…"

Glassy eyes blinked rapidly and Dean got the distinct impression that wherever Sam was, he wasn't in this room.

"Don't… don't…don't… please… d-don't t-touch me…" Sam panted out breathlessly. "P-please…s-someone… _g-get me out…"_

John leaned over and pressed a kiss to his baby boy's damp hair.

"I'm gonna fix this, Sammy. You keep on fighting for us. Just give me a little more time…" John withdrew, about to leave the room.

But a tiny glimmer of suspicion in the back of Dean's head was demanding attention, so he reached out and grabbed his father's shoulder.

"No, Dad. There's something else we can try," he glared when John tried to pull away, tightened his grip, lowered his voice, and outright _begged_. "_Please _Dad…"

John chewed on the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed in consideration.

"You got five minutes, kid. That's all I can give you. Make it count."

Dean nodded sharply. "Rock salt, we need rock salt."

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_**Author's notes:**_

_**So, what has Dean got in mind? Will it be enough to stop his father from taking drastic action? Can he save his little brother in time?**_

_**Ah, the suspense...**_

_**And you all hate me now for leaving it there, but the next and final chapter will be up very soon...**_

_**Kind regards,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Consumed**

**Chapter 5**

_**and epilogue...**_

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_**Apologies for the briefness of my replies to your reviews of the last chapter. Had a hectic night on call last night, and I still haven't had any sleep.**_

_**Only finished work a few hours ago, been awake around 35 hours now, **_

_**and starting to feel it...**_

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

It took a little longer than the allotted five minutes to retrieve a bag of rock salt from the Impala, but John had a feeling he knew where Dean was going with this, and decided to let the kid prove his point.

"Ya see," Dean explained, as he circled Sam's bed, pouring out a thick stream of salt. "He told me, remember? Something followed him out of that grave… I think that's where he is right now, in his head…" he babbled on, frantic to get the words out. "Sam's back in that grave. _That's_ what's caused all this… the TB… how it, uh, spread so fast… why Sam fell sick so quickly…"

John felt his heart thudding painfully with excitement. "You think this is some kind of ghost sickness?"

Dean stopped what he was doing for a moment and raised his head. "That's exactly what I think, but it works more like a curse. Those corpses? I bet they all died of TB. One of the villagers even said as much. And the skeleton of the baby? Yeah, that pissed them off all right."

"Sam was the only one of us that got sick," John realised his oldest son was definitely onto something.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, angry guilt flashing across his young face. "Because _he_ disturbed the grave…and I fucking _sent _him there."

And it was something he'd never forgive himself for.

"Dean…" John began, but stopped when he saw Dean's determined stance, and figured it could wait 'til later.

When Sam wasn't hovering on the brink of death, for example.

But now a decision had to be made.

The grave had collapsed that day, nearly taking the Winchester brothers with it. There was no way one man could excavate that grave before dawn, and someone had to stay with Sam. The youngster needed help, needed a voice to keep him afloat.

John thought hard about that.

"You stay with Sam," he announced, and headed for the door. "I figure this village owes us." A quick grin and he was gone.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

"Charles?"

The doctor stood slowly on hearing his name. "What can I do?"

John's mouth curled into an almost smile. "I want you to round up at least five able bodied men and women, all with shovels, pitchforks, whatever they can get their hands on, and get them to meet me at the cemetery gates. Pronto."

Charles frowned; looking a little confused, but didn't question the order.

"We have a phone tree for emergencies. I'll get right on it."

In fact the phone tree was so effective that what looked like the entire village was already waiting at the entrance to the cemetery, when he arrived.

John tried not to stare as he got out of the car and unlocked the gates, allowing the small swarm of people inside. Questions fired rapidly, and John did his best to answer each one.

"_What do you want us to do?"_

"Help me dig up a mass grave."

"_Which one?"_

"The one that collapsed nearly killing my sons a few days back."

"_Yeah, I heard about that. Nasty business. They ok?"_

"No. Sam, my youngest, is real sick in hospital." John refused to say anymore, but a tug on his sleeve brought him to an abrupt halt. It was the toothless wonder in his nineties, and he was mumbling something.

Suddenly getting the very strange feeling he needed to hear this, John reluctantly leaned closer to the old buzzard, doing his best not to breathe in the scent of what was very probably stale cat's urine and rotting vegetables.

"_Yer son got sick... 'cos o' that grave… was cursed nigh on two centuries ago."_

John stared at him, feeling more than a little pissed, but let the guy continue.

"_My grandpappy… he tol' me… never go near that grave…. 'Was a rich family, but he, the father, was arrogant…thought he could buy anything he wanted…but the babe was jus' three days old when the sickness claimed him. Poor little mite din' stand a chance… his momma followed afew weeks later. The father learned the hard way that money couldn't buy everything… See… she was weakened by the birth… couldn't fight it…the father… buried her along with their son… and in a fit of fury, all of their money.…then it spread… sisters, brothers…then the father… he was last…cursed the grave before he passed on._

_Anyone desecrating the grave… to get to his riches… would be consumed and die within days."_

Poor old man was getting weak and breathless, and John wondered if this was the most he'd spoken in years. His story was a little mixed up, but the gist was easy to grasp.

_Consumption. _

An old term for tuberculosis.

Sam had said something followed him out of the grave. And now it was trying to drag him back. Maybe had already succeeded.

Dean was essentially right. A cursed grave and an angry spirit lying dormant for centuries, just waiting for the opportunity to take revenge, and Sam was its victim.

In John's experience, most spirits started out fairly benign, but after decades of being trapped, unable, or perhaps unwilling to move on, they grew angry and violent, sometimes laying down a powerful curse.

But in this case the spirit had already started out mean, bitter and angry, and that made his curse all the more potent because it built up as it lay beneath the ground for all those years, like a volcano ready to burst.

John was beginning to sympathise with the spirit. He was fuming.

"Why didn't you tell us this before?" he demanded of the old man. "You could have saved us a whole lot of trouble!"

Toothless scratched his head and shrugged pathetically.

"_Memory… ain't what it used to be, son… only just thought of it," _the old boy rasped out. Faded blue eyes began to water, and his mouth turned down in sorrow.

Feeling a little bad for almost losing it, John patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Let's just get this done. Sam doesn't have much time left…"

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean sat on the bed, and gripped both Sam's hands tightly.

"Listen to my voice, Sammy. You're safe, but you're gonna have to listen and do as I say."

_Power of thought... it's our last stand...you once taught me that, Sammy, remember...?_

_You and your emo girl crap?_

Sam coughed and moaned through the fresh blood, his body growing weaker with each passing minute.

"I know where you are, and I know you're scared, but I'm here. M'not gonna let anything happen to you."

But the kid's breathing sounded terrible, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing in more air to his damaged lungs.

Dean was pretty sure Sam's vitals were soon gonna drop, and the next thing would be the vent. He hoped like hell it wouldn't come to that…

"Sammy, you're safe," Dean repeated, fervently. "I'm here with you, and we're both safe inside a salt circle. Just keep holding on. Dad's gonna finish this, and you'll get better, just… _remember the circle of salt!_"

Dean squeezed the kid's hands gently.

"I'm gonna get you out of there, just hold on little bro."

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

It took a frustrating amount of time to dig out part of the grave and set up a rough support structure before it collapsed again. People began shielding their mouths and noses with bandanas to avoid the dust.

Since Sam's accident the task was monumental, with what appeared to be several tons of earth to shift, made worse by the tangled roots of long dead trees.

John had explained the potential risks... that the TB curse could engulf the village should they fail.

But that didn't stop them... _didn't scare them._

Other villagers made themselves useful, providing water and hot coffee, and one woman even set up an outdoor kitchen, heating up soup over an open fire and buttering bread.

John wasn't sure just how legal that was, and barely suppressed a grin when the village's one and only fire officer glared at the kindly woman, even as she handed him a steaming bowl of the nourishing broth.

But after two hours of gruelling work, John began to see progress.

"C'mon!" he roared. "Let's step it up here!"

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_Sam pressed his back against the grave wall, trying to stay as far out of reach as possible._

'_You! You will join us...' it rasped out again, voice seething with hatred._

_He couldn't tell if the spirit was male or female, but he guessed at this stage it no longer mattered. Sam was all alone, and there's was no one there to save him…_

"_Sammy..."_

_Sam blinked, his breath coming in short, gasps, body wracked with pain. He could taste the metal in his own blood as he struggled to breathe._

"_Dean..."_

"_I'm here… we're safe inside a salt circle…"_

_Something else was said but Sam couldn't quite make it out._

"…_remember the circle of salt!"_

_He could feel someone holding his hands, gently squeezing, reassuring._

"_I'm gonna get you out of there, just hold on little bro."_

_Sam glanced down and saw a thin sliver of something white, a pale shadow slowly surrounding him. Letting his head fall back against the grave wall, Sam smiled in spite of the pain._

_The ghost wailed and threw itself at Sam, but screeched angrily when it thumped against an invisible barrier._

'_You… how dare you! You come here and disturb our rest… want our money... should have been you!'_

_It was either mad or talking in riddles, and Sam just didn't care._

_But the ghost backed off, bent double as though in pain... and began to blow, the cold air turning blue._

_Sam stared in wide eyed fear as salt granules gradually detached themselves from the line…_

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean kept up the whispering, kept in physical contact at all times. But out the corner of his eye, he saw something move on the floor.

The salt line was deteriorating…

"Shit!"

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

They were making good speed though John glanced anxiously at the Eastern sky. A tinge of red was bleeding slowly through the clouds, reminding him of Sam's tears.

Someone started shouting.

The grave was opening up, dirt slithering down and trying to refill the hole. But the make shift support struts held nicely, keeping back the stubborn earth.

John readied the salt and gasoline.

"This is gonna have to be real quick, so when I give the word, you all jump the hell out of the way!" John glanced around to see his team nodding. "Ok… after three. One… two… _GO!_"

As one, the grave diggers jumped back. John leapt forwards, dumping an entire large bag of salt into the opening with one hand, and a split second later gasoline followed from the other.

Charles was the one who dropped the lit Zippo.

Salt, gasoline and fire. A heady combination against a powerful curse.

The grave erupted with a bright flash of light which winked out soon after, plunging the cemetery into darkness.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_The next thing Sam remembered feeling was the return of sheer terror. The spirit was advancing on him again, gaining speed and power. _

_Its grin was appalling, and grew more frightening when the rest of its family joined in._

_The _last_ Sam remembered was a blinding flash of light._

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean lifted his head, opened his eyes and blinked hard, trying to eradicate the after effects of the lightning.

"Sam?"

Dean had to blink again, because his little brother appeared to be sleeping peacefully, his breathing stabilised. Sure, he didn't look one hundred percent, but it was better than the alternative.

Removing the hated oxygen mask and tossing it on to the night stand, he turned to study his brother again, a faint smile on his face.

"Ya know, wasn't sure that was gonna work," Dean spoke quietly, so as not to wake him. "But I figured it was worth a shot."

The smile widened when Sam snuffled, wriggled around and let out a light snore.

A _normal_ snore. Not a wheeze, not a desperate gasp, nor a blood flecked sputum producing cough.

Just his little brother. Sleeping peacefully at last.

Dean bit back a yawn, and figured that wasn't such a bad idea…

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

John didn't even stop to help with the clean up and figured people wouldn't mind that he had more pressing matters. He broke the speed limit racing back to the hospital, left the Impala illegally parked with the driver's door wide open, and ran up to the ICU.

Pushing open the door to Sam's room he strode inside to be met with a sight for sore eyes.

Both sons were sleeping soundly on the bed. Sam lay contented and safe with Dean curled around him, chin resting on his younger brother's head.

John studied them both. Sam looked healthier than he'd seen him in ages, though the slight tinge of jaundice suggested he had a way to go before he was up and about.

"It's a miracle, huh?"

John turned to find the young nurse smiling fondly at the boys.

Daisy had already disconnected most of Sam's IVs by the time John arrived, and bandaged up the needle marks and bruises left behind.

John shrugged. "I guess they do happen."

It still seemed a little absurd to him that everyone in the village knew what the Winchester family business was, and accepted it pretty much without question.

"This place has been rife with folklore and tales of the supernatural since I can remember," the nurse stated as though reading John's mind. "It's as much a part of us as breathing. Unfortunately, some people panic, get an idea into their stupid thick heads, and use it for all the wrong reasons. Like keeping back the wheels of progress."

He gave a shaky smile when Daisy winked knowingly.

"That's something we can never slow down... at least, not like _that_..." she added quietly with a wisdom beyond her years.

Here, it seemed, was a person with some common sense.

Hopefully the people had learned their lesson and if not, there were always the likes of Daisy to remind them.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

**_Epilogue_**

It was another week before Sam got the all clear and his much yearned for release papers. Dr Fletcher wanted to keep him under observation until he was absolutely sure the drugs and antibiotics hadn't wreaked havoc with his immune system. His liver function was a cause for concern but there was no sign of tuberculosis. Right now, his body was suffering from the side effect of the treatment.

So it was a very impatient Sam Winchester who was wheeled from the hospital entrance to the back seat of the Impala, grumbling about how he could walk just fine.

"Yeah, right," Dean snorted. "When you got out of bed this morning and the world tipped sideways? That was your body's way of saying you are _not_ fine!"

Sam huffed but had no come back.

Yeah, sure he was feeling great, but then anything had to be an improvement on tuberculosis. His throat felt a little raw, he still had moments of dizziness, especially when he got up too quickly, but Dean could always be counted on to break his fall.

_But more importantly..._

The brothers hadn't stopped bickering since the moment Sam woke up.

Dean teased, Sam whined and bitched.

Dean stole Sam's toast, Sam whined and bitched.

Dean ruffled his hair and hid his comb, Sam whined and bitched.

The hospital staff shook their heads in bewildered amusement, completely missing the point.

No one spotted the subtle undertones, the grateful smiles, the worried glances, the silent _thanks for saving me,_ the returned _anytime little bro_.

No one except their father, of course.

Nightmares still came and went. Dean never brought it up unless Sam was ready to talk, and then they chose the most roundabout and convoluted ways of doing so, even John couldn't keep up with them.

Dean tried to tone it down, but couldn't help casting sneak glances at his brother as he drove them back to their temporary home. He'd come so close to losing the little jerk that his heart still throbbed painfully whenever he thought about it.

Sam had agreed to staying on at Lewis Jenkins' house, partly because he liked the feeling of being settled for a while, partly because he genuinely liked the place, but mostly because his family insisted so he could attend his clinic appointments; Dr Green planned on taking bloods twice a month to continue monitoring Sam's liver function for adverse affects.

Of course, school was out. Until, that was, the bitching and whining started up again, and John grudgingly organised some home schooling.

They settled in nicely at the Jenkins house, Dean and John tending the cemetery, with Sam sometimes tagging along and helping with the lighter duties, such as weeding the flower beds of the newest graves. It was actually a very pleasant and peaceful place in the bright afternoon sun, and the Winchesters took great pride in their work.

The mass grave was once again filled in, seeded over and left to itself, its occupants finally at rest. No one had stopped to check whether or not there actually _were_ any riches buried there. Apparently everyone had been scared enough of late without adding grave robbery to the mix.

Life went on for the small community.

But for Dean, there were a few things still left to be said.

Sam was seated on the veranda one afternoon, back against the wall, eyes closed and listening to the birds singing and chirping in the trees; basically the kind of thing Dean always warned him about.

"Careful, dude. Much more of that and you'll be reciting poetry," Dean spoke up right on cue as he sat down beside his little brother. "Then there'll be no stopping it. Next thing ya know, you'll be ball room dancing at the Blue Oyster bar."

Sam didn't open his eyes, but Dean could see his tired smile.

"What ya want, Dean?"

Dean frowned. His brother still sounded exhausted, but he was improving. That had to be something.

But now he'd figured out what he needed to say.

"Dean?" Sam lifted his head and finally took a good look at his brother. Dean had been silent for so long, he was starting to worry. "You ok?" he asked softly

"Sam I'm sorry," Dean turned his gaze downwards, appearing to study a tiny beetle crawling along the wooden decking. "I almost got you killed. You shouldn't have been the one to go through all that… should've been me…" his voice was just a little shaky by the time Sam let him off the hook.

A hand on his arm made Dean glance up in to Sam's compassionate and worried gaze. "Dean, stop that, ok? It wasn't your fault. And let's not forget it was you who figured out how to save me. As for being hit with the curse, it could've been any one of us," he shrugged reasonably. "I just drew the short straw."

Dean winced and fixed his brother with a grim smile. "Yeah well, next time I'm letting you win."

"Aw c'mon…"

"Seriously," Dean insisted, his tone brooking no argument. "I never would have let you dig that grave if I'd known what would happen. And… and _I should've known, Sammy!_"

It was the first time Sam had ever seen his brother so emotional, the first time he could recall seeing Dean's eyes fill with tears. But it didn't last long, because those tears were quickly wiped away by the sleeve of his leather jacket, and Dean got to his feet, holding out a hand.

"Food's ready," he announced, familiar cocky grin back in place, even if it was a shade watery. "Dad's cooked lasagne again." An eyebrow lifted in question. "You actually gonna eat it this time, TB boy?"

Sam rolled his eyes and accepted his brother's assistance. Still a little wobbly on his feet, but soon steadied with an arm round his waist, he trusted Dean to lead him safely into the kitchen.

Unbeknownst to the brothers, their father watched them from a discreet distance out the kitchen window, before heading back to check on dinner. He'd had a long talk with Dean whilst Sam was in hospital. So John hadn't quite managed to persuade Dean that none of this was his doing, and it seemed that Sam hadn't been any luckier in that respect. But his boys were alive and healing each other in their own special way.

John cocked an ear as he dished up the food, listening in on his sons with an amused smile.

_Let the bickering commence..._

"TB boy? That the best you can do, Dean?"

"You want me to go back to Baldy? 'Cos, ya know, that can be arranged."

"You want me to go back to Unibrow? 'Cos _that_ can be arranged!"

"Dream on, Sammy. You can only catch me out the once…"

"Or twice in the case of Sally Fisher and her 'my parents won't be home for hours' line."

"Yeahhh…" Dean sighed contentedly. "But it was so worth it…"

"Her father chased you across town on a tractor, Dean. _Twice…_"

"Tractors don't move so fast. I got away."

"Yeah, and went back for seconds."

"What can I say? She was just that good!"

"Count it, dude. Once, was bad enough," Sam held up an index finger. "But Twice?" He held up a second finger. "Let the record show that one Dean Winchester was seen running bare foot in the park last year, in a pair of navy boxers… _and a Queen T-shirt!_"

"I couldn't find _my_ shirt ok? So I took the one she gave me."

"Uhuh…" Sam didn't sound convinced.

"Zip it bitch."

"Make me Jerk…"

John chuckled, and set the table for dinner.

Yep, things were getting back to normal.

_**The End.**_

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_**Author's Notes:**_

_**Well, there ya go. Another story comes to a close. Hope you all enjoyed it and received the appropriate chills in all the right places. Many thanks for all your reviews.**_

_**Special thanks, of course, goes to Phx for the excellent beta skills, and to Sendintheclowns for all her love and support.**_

_**Kind regards,**_

_**ST xxx**_


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